


Acrid

by deadthot



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Desperation, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Other, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22555693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadthot/pseuds/deadthot
Summary: When you wake up with your bladder running on full, you're convinced the Entity has it out for you. You can only hope things don't get messier than usual.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 114





	Acrid

**Author's Note:**

> gender-neutral reader

You've started your trials off much worse before, the memory of waking up with a broken leg coming to mind, but your current condition in particular is a unique nightmare.

You _really_ have to piss.

Initially, its an inconvenience. Nothing more than a mild nuisance, something you can manage just fine with. You reunite with a fellow survivor, working quick and alert to get a generator up and running. The eternal night is otherwise quiet. You can do this.

Your determination does nothing to deter the near-painful twisting just below your gut, however. You fidget uncomfortably, gritting your teeth in defiance of your bodily needs. You briefly entertain the idea of going around the back of a bush for some relief, but you'd rather not be caught wasting time with your pants around your ankles. Besides, you've never been the type to do something so rustic. 

There's a spark at your fingertips and you barely have time to shield your face before an explosion erupts in your face. Perhaps your little problem was more of a distraction than you'd realized.

Tossing an apologetic look at your teammate, who responds in turn with a glare, you decide now would be an excellent time to scatter before you both get stabbed to death. Or eaten. That's never fun.

You retreat into the shadows, ducking into the safety of a row of hedges lining the backyard of a would-be quaint house. You slip inside, eyes darting around in the jarring illumination. All clear. As quickly as possible, you proceed into a backroom where a dead wind drifts through an open window. An easy escape.

For a moment, you hesitate. You'd probably perish on the spot if vaulting a damn window proved to be _too much exertion_ , but since you need to keep moving, you move.

As if your situation wasn't unfortunate enough, a figure suddenly stands and leaps into the room with you. Tall, dark, and murderous with a ghostly mask to match. At least you know its him this round. Half the time you aren't so lucky as to notice him before a knife notices your spine.

Your brain screams at you to _run_ but your body doesn't quite catch up in time. Ghostface lunges forward and tackles you to the ground, your back slamming against the hardwood floor. The impact is sudden, knocks the air out of you, and oh, _God_ , it feels like your bladder is going to _explode_. Ghostface straddles you, knife poised to strike, but you're sweating bullets from a very different kind of fear.

He's got your wrists pinned to the floor above your head and you know without needing to push it that you're not getting loose any time soon. Your eyes are fixed on the knife above you. In a way, you're glad you're about to die, because that means you won't really be present when your traitorous body decides to give in and let loose. 

The knife comes down.

 _Next_ to your head. Its embedded pretty deep into the floorboards, which would've made a real mess out of your face. You tear your eyes away from the bloodied blade to stare dumbfounded up at that impassive mask. You can only wonder at what Ghostface is planning. Take a few pictures of your torment first? Change things up a bit by breaking your neck? Your knees squeeze together, desperation growing; whatever it is, you just want it _over with_.

Ghostface splays his hand on your chest. Runs it slowly downward, much to your surprise and further confoundment, until he lifts the hem up just enough to bare your stomach. Horrible thoughts race through your head. He's going to _gut_ you, isn't he? You grind your teeth together so hard it sends shocks through your jaw. 

What he does in reality is, predictably, so much more cryptic. His gloved hand rubs over your stomach, dips down to your lower abdomen. _Pushes_ , then releases into light caresses, rinse and repeat. 

You can't bite back the groan that leaves you, but you at least manage to stop it from becoming a wail. The realization hits you with a heat that burns your cheeks. He must've been watching this whole time, saw you struggling against your own bladder all trial. This is a particularly mean form of torture.

You give a shaky laugh, throwing your head to the side so you don't have to look up at his mask. "If you're trying to make me die of embarassment, you're on the right track." you admit awkwardly, giggling uncomfortably.

Maybe its just your imagination, but you could swear you heard a quiet, muffled chuckle. Ghostface doesn't pause once in his ministrations. They only intensify until he's continually squeezing at your abdomen, hard enough to hurt. The modicum of dignity left in you demands you hold out, though the pressure only builds.

With a whimper and a soft " _oh fuck_ ," your bladder gives out. Equal parts shame and relief flood your system as you urinate yourself, hot and all but _endless_ down your thighs. Soiling your pants - and Ghostface's, where he's seated on top of you. Each slight shift of his weight reveals a hardness mounting between his legs because _of fucking course_ he's getting off on this. Some small part of you almost doesn't mind, almost sings with something mutual. You bite your lip so hard a bead of blood rises up, but you can't stifle your pitiful whine.

With no real temperature in the air of the Entity's realm, the mess doesn't cool. Instead, it remains a boiling shame between your legs. Adding to your mortification is a loud _click_ and a flash of light. The camera is tucked away in Ghostface's coat before you can even process the humiliation properly.

The pressure at your wrists releases. Ghostface pats the side of your cheek then stands, plucking his knife from the floor in the process. He gives you a faux-innocent little wave and retreats, leaving you to stew alone in your sickening embarassment.

You _really_ wish he just disemboweled you.

**Author's Note:**

> i have never written this particular kink. it was surprisingly fun.


End file.
